


across the hallowed ground

by lesouci



Series: the rest of heaven was blue [1]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Background Polyamory, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Dark Magic, Demon summonings, Kidnapping, M/M, Protectiveness, demon...everyone else, dual personalities, human Wooyoung, light Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesouci/pseuds/lesouci
Summary: San can’t remember the last time there was a whole of him. Part of it is how long he has slept until their name is called again in the new century: he is summoned, and so he must answer – and the Other with him. It does not matter that San is dragged kicking and screaming through the Veil, nor that San would have rather deeper gouged the binding sigils into his own skin before anyone ever freedthemagain.-Or: how Wooyoung meets San, and the creature that lies in wait inside him.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, background Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang, background Jung Wooyoung/Park Seonghwa
Series: the rest of heaven was blue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546162
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	across the hallowed ground

**Author's Note:**

> let me just casually return after 6(?) months with more polyamory demon au :D
> 
> -you don't technically need to read the other fics in this series (they aren't finished yet anyways; ; ;), but if you've read those by chance, you might notice that jongho isn't here at this point in the timeline yet!  
> -this is the first of four "prequels" to this verse and covers san + woosan's history leading up to the present. seonghwa, yeosang, and jongho will get their own fics too but i'm going to try to do them one by one so i don't overwhelm myself again orz  
> -the title is from fatm's HOWL because the line "i hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallow'ed ground" haunts me every day
> 
> there _are_ going to be descriptions of **blood, death, and violence** throughout this fic. it won't be too heavy, but in case anyone is sensitive to any of those things, please take care of yourself!

San can’t remember the last time there was a whole of him. Part of it is how long he has slept until their name is called again in the new century: he is summoned, and so he must answer – and the Other with him. It does not matter that San is dragged kicking and screaming through the Veil, nor that San would have rather deeper gouged the binding sigils into his own skin before anyone ever freed _them_ again.

He wakes in a forest, wet and freezing, his body screaming where the magic of his bonds has been stripped away. The moment is nothing like the arid, grimy attic of his last memory, but he doesn’t feel particularly thankful for it. There are no signs of life save for leaves rustling under the gentle drip of the rain, and he doesn’t feel particularly thankful for that either.

What they do feel is hunger – but something gutturally incorporeal, a siren’s call stronger than the voice that had called them to this plane.

San is weak. He doesn’t make it two steps on his feet before he crumples, the pain screaming louder and louder in his ears. Their flesh feels flayed raw, and he just wants to _rest,_ why couldn’t he rest – why couldn’t they have let him sleep until time chipped him away, kept themselves safe—

San closes his eyes

and the Other takes care of them, as he always has. The Other has only known pain before, hunched in that dark cell with no one but the eyes of their spectators for company. But for the first time now, It sees clouds: great, big gray pillows of them blanketing the sky, hauntingly beautiful. For the first time, It feels raindrops on their skin, each droplet somehow barely there and too much at once. For the first time, It tilts their head to the trees and breathes the crisp air of winter.

Then It hears a faraway hum – nothing but a mere buzzing beneath the roar of Its hunger and the sounds of earth yet more powerful than either, calling them so sweetly by name – and for the first time, the Other feels _purpose_.

It moves. Unfed and unpracticed, It stumbles on their feet for some steps, but It learns quickly. It must.

It breaks free of the treeline and into a clearing that slopes gently into the hill. Bare feet crunch mindlessly over frozen pinpricks of grass as It climbs to the peak. There, the whole world seems to lay sprawled beneath their feet – and somewhere in the distance is the source of that Call.

It must be what dragged them here, and that is all the more reason to distrust it and expect yet more irresponsible arcanists, summoners, _humans_ , whatever they may be, or to expect yet another deal, a hushed trade for another’s life.

But It keeps following nonetheless. It doesn’t think it could not-hear that Call even if It tried. Every fiber of their body sings in response: _Yes, I am on my way._

Swiftly, It moves again, hardly knowing what waits for them but knowing so _certainly_ that they must answer. The forestry begins to blur and the rain and the wet earth become distant sensations as It moves forward, always forward – like the seas yearning for the moon, like the needle of a compass pointing true north.

Day fades into night, into day, into day after day after another

and San sleeps somewhere warm for the first time that night, stolen away in the corner of a barn he doesn’t remember finding, and in the morning he hardly sees the sun rise before

they are moving once again. They _have_ to, It knows, and It doesn’t much like being in control for so long but It is much faster than San is, and it can more easily swallow the pain of the freezing temperatures, the frozen ground, the echoing reminders of where the binds were once seared into their body.

The Call is strongest at night, sometimes so strong that It wants to howl back, if only to complete its lonely song – but nights are for Its host, and once food and shelter has been secured, It retreats willfully during those hours to let Its host feel the physical warmth and nourishment for himself. Most times, It allows itself to sleep, trusting Its host to take care of them.

Sometimes It is awoken by Its host’s dreams, where innocent lives beg for mercy before their voices are ultimately drowned out by roaring _hunger_.

These times, It drifts a little closer to the surface, just close enough so that the sound of the Call overpowers the nightmare.

 _Come to me,_ it whispers, _I have been waiting for so long_.

It promises a place for them. It promises a destiny. It promises that there is a reason for everything they have gone through.

So the Other will quell as many nightmares as It must at night,

when San sleeps curled in on himself and dreaming of _the Time Before_ , of his parents’ kind eyes and his father’s warm hand over his, guiding him into the proper posture with which to hold a paintbrush

and Its hatred for the cruel eyes that floated above them as many hands held him down while another scribed a fire-hot binding sigil into his skin

and sometimes San will wake himself, grasping at his heart with terror coursing through his veins,

and sometimes It will whisper for San to hush and listen, doesn’t he hear that Call, doesn’t he know that things will soon be all right

(as though this rotting, vile thing inside him ought to be able to comfort him)

because It is only as good as Its host and they must take care of each other,

but this time San wakes outside of a village he doesn’t recognize, covered in snow and blood that isn’t his.

He screams, wrenching himself away from the body that lays centerpiece to a violent red rose in the snow, and hits his head hard against a tree in his scramble.

He crumples on bent elbows and retches. “Not again,” he moans, tears branding heat down his cheeks, “oh gods, not again, not again.”

A pale hand. The profile of a young man, perhaps his age, perhaps younger, expression twisted into a final expression of terror, dark hair fanned over snow. There’s red—so much red.

His stomach convulses again. “Where are we?” he chokes out. He feels as though he is rattling out of his skin, and gods, he wants to. He wants to shed these teeth and these hands that have rendered so many innocent things apart, to leave behind this _thing_ festering inside him. “What did you do? _What did we do?”_

He receives no answer but a distant shout: “Here! I see something!” He scents humans long before he hears their footsteps rushing through the snowbanks.

Fear pierces his chest. He pushes up on one knee, buckling before he can rise to the other. _Run_ , a voice moans inside him, _run, run, runrunrun_ , and he wants to scream back, _I can’t anymore,_ not with the lead in his legs and wildfire clawing up his windpipe.

 _Let me_ , sings his hunger, _I’ll take us. Let me._

The choice glimmers before him.

San wants to live. It’s base, it’s rotten, it’s selfish. _How many have you hurt?_ whispers his past Keepers. _How many more will you hurt?_ whispers the corpse in the snow.

A stronger man – a better man – would surrender himself, but San is not better. He is no man at all but a slipshod, ugly _thing_ bursting at the seams of this flesh, and he only wants to live a life he can call his own.

 _Yes_ , he calls back fervently, _yes, please, please help me, please_ , and he is still pleading when his vision dims black

and the Other travels north.

It pushes through blistering cold winds and unforgiving terrain, only stopping to feed or replace the shoes that protect their feet. Villages blur past. Progress is swift: It doesn’t feel pain nor exhaustion the way humans do, nor remorse for the bodies it leaves behind. Perhaps Its host will, once he wakes again. But that won’t happen for a long time yet.

For now, It will keep them safe, moving ever closer to the source of their Call.

Every Call has a voice, and It remembers every voice that has called them: desperate nobles, vengeance-seekers, power-hungry dictators, children with playground grudges taken too far, the men who had made them _this_. They have all sounded wretched, and It fought against every single one’s pull, howling against the shackles they closed over his neck.

But this one is different. This one is dulcet and nearly plaintive in its sincerity, asking them not to harm but to protect.

And so It answers.

.

The carriage rattles along the forest path, jolting over rocks and through lingering clumps of snow.

“We’re lost,” Seonghwa announces imperiously.

Wooyoung glances up from his journal and bites back a grin at the sight of the older man pressed rigidly against the other side of the seat. “Would you know how to navigate any better?”

“I could _drive_ better.”

This time, Wooyoung really laughs at the thunderous expression on Seonghwa’s face. “I’m pretty sure riding the horse of death or whatever you were taught doesn’t equate to carriage driving. Sorry.” He puts his journal back in his bag and takes Seonghwa’s hand though, because he can feel the amulet pulsing warmly against his chest.

_Are you okay?_

The question of concern comes tugging from the front of the carriage. _I’m fine. That’s Seonghwa_ , Wooyoung hums, smoothing out Yeosang’s concern from their bond. _You’re making him sick._

_Oh, in that case._

The carriage kicks up a little faster. Seonghwa’s hand jolts around his.

“You know you can hide your face in my shoulder if you want,” Wooyoung offers, smug. If watching Seonghwa fluster by the littlest of things when he postured so menacingly to every living thing that crossed their path was a pastime, it would be one of Wooyoung’s favorites. “Any time.”

Seonghwa huffs and turns away from him, until all Wooyoung can see is his jet-black hair and his high collar. “You’re both insufferable.”

And yet he has chosen to travel with them, live with them, stay with them.

Wooyoung isn’t worried at all.

 _Sangie, if you see somewhere we can rest soon, we should stop for the night._ He plays with Seonghwa’s fingers in his lap idly. Of course he isn’t fazed by Yeosang’s driving; Yeosang had learned from the Jung family’s old driver—an older gentleman that Wooyoung had always liked before he…

Yeosang sends a wordless thrum down their bond.

Wooyoung reaches back for him, his free hand subconsciously curling.

Despite his offer, he finds himself resting his head against Seonghwa’s shoulder instead. The movement of the carriage is almost hypnotic, familiar as he is with it. After his parents disappeared, Yeosang was the one who drove him everywhere, asking no questions when Wooyoung requested they went somewhere _quiet, someplace no one else knows about_ , and saying nothing when Wooyoung would emerge from the carriage on shaky legs, eyes swollen.

His amulet grows a little warmer.

 _I’ll drive tomorrow,_ Wooyoung offers. _You should get some rest too._

_That’s a lot of faith, Young-ah._

_I can drive!_ Wooyoung says indignantly.

 _No._ He practically feels Yeosang’s eyeroll. _I meant faith that hyung and I won’t get into a fight._

_Or that you two could finally be friends!_

_Tell him_ that _first._

Whoever said that mankind’s ego was the next wonder of the world had clearly never met a demon. Even after over a year of protecting each other, fighting alongside each other, and even saving each other _just_ several days ago from hunters, Yeosang and Seonghwa somehow continued to find ways to be petty at each other.

 _Well…_ Wooyoung winces at the actual _heat_ emanating from his amulet now, clutching it through his shirt. _Maybe_ you _went a little overboard this time, Sangie. He feels really—_

Something slams into the carriage.

Wooyoung has a moment to call out, “Yeosang?” not realizing that he’d said it aloud, before the carriage tips onto its side and he and Seonghwa crash out of their seats. The air suddenly _pops_ , and then something soft wraps around Wooyoung and envelops him into Seonghwa’s arms.

Glass shatters somewhere beneath him. In the distance, he hears the horse whinny, an aborted, fearful sound, and something else cracks.

“Fuck!” Realizing Seonghwa’s wings are around him and there must be glass everywhere, Wooyoung pushes frantically against the chest below him. “The glass, it’s going to— Are you okay? Hyung?”

“Stay down,” Seonghwa snarls, and he must be shifting, his grip on Wooyoung’s back slowly elongating into talons. “Yeosang!”

 _Yeosang_ , Wooyoung calls at the same time, only to find Yeosang’s side of the bond quiet. Empty. “Let me go,” he shouts, batting Seonghwa’s arms away furiously and trying to see something, _anything_ past the thick, dark feathers of Seonghwa’s wings.

“Quiet.” The amulet flares, and surely Seonghwa can feel it pressed between them, almost unbearably hot now— “Wooyoung,” he hisses, and Wooyoung realizes he cried out in pain, “I know, I know it hurts, but you have to be _quiet_.”

It’s the fear in his voice that brings Wooyoung’s struggling to a heel.

Seonghwa. The former cardinal guardian of the north, cast down from grace and reforged, reborn, from the depths of the Soulless Pit.

 _Afraid_.

Around them, the carriage rocks. Creaks.

 _Yeosang_. Wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut and tries again, desperate. It’s never felt like this in the six years he’s known his companion, his friend, his _soulmate_ , and the thought of such a bond disappearing in a single, fleeting moment wrenches him, grieves him.

“What is your business here?” Seonghwa’s voice deepens, distorting as his human façade stretches and strains.

In the darkness, Wooyoung clamps his lips together tightly and fights off the pain threatening to make itself known. He can see the amulet glowing a furious red from his chest, and the heat feels as though it can sear a hole through him.

The carriage rocks again. _Thud, thud, thud._ Something is crawling above them.

Then comes the growl, strange and deep and guttural, underlined by a sharp, erratic clicking that sounds like no human, hunter, nor creature that Wooyoung has heard before.

“Demon,” Seonghwa’s voice rises to a command, one that Wooyoung knows can bring lesser fiends to their knees, “ _I asked you_ —”

Something sinks into Wooyoung’s back, and pain blooms through his body as though it is new earth. ( _Through Seonghwa’s wings_ , he thinks deliriously, _through Seonghwa._ )

And then he is in the light.

“No!” someone howls, the long, long sound of it already dropping off in the distance.

Wooyoung thinks he caught a glimpse of the ground, the wreckage, and an unmoving body, but he scarcely has time to call out for either Seonghwa or Yeosang.

The last thing he remembers is the amulet, its heat now gentled against his heart.

Then there is darkness.

.

The Other carries him through the trees, over rivers, and through mountains—until the moon has climbed to its peak and further still until the sun begins to rise, until they have found a place to rest their new Keeper.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a [writing twit](https://twitter.com/illusiverses) now where i'm also in the middle of a mutants au if you want to @ me uwu


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